


Balance the Scales

by Bibliotecaria_D



Series: (D)Alliances Side Stories [1]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-23
Updated: 2011-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-24 21:30:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Light-hearted thought to preface all the death in the animated movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balance the Scales

**Title:** Balance the Scales  
 **Warning:** A severe lack of angst. People who like or even love each other. Everyday life before TF:TM.  
 **Rating:** G  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Autobots  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** TF_G1_Season3 Comment Party Prompt: _Arcee, one girl to save the world._

[* * * * *]

Prime steepled his fingers on the table in front of him, mostly because it felt rude to have his hands out of sight of the camera. Also, putting his hands flat on the table sort of looked like he had nothing better to do but hold a table down. “We’re not questioning your judgment, Elita One. My officers and I,” he nodded to the officers in question, who politely nodded in turn to the screen showing the Cybertronian commander, “would simply like some insight on your choice of transfers.”

“Namely, that we are sending ten of the Earth personnel to aid your crew, and you have chosen to assign us…five? In exchange.” Prowl looked down to his datapad as if he had to check that last fact. “While no one will deny that the situation on Cybertron is dire, the original reasoning for the reassignment was to more evenly deploy our resources. Four—unnamed, I note—Autobots exchanged for nine Autobots, four of whom are officers. This equation seems,” he looked up and frowned, “unbalanced.”

“I’m quite the resource,” Ironhide drawled with overdone pride as he sat back from the table and hoisted a thumb at his chest. It got a rueful smile from Chromia over on the Cybertron side of the conference, which is what he always wanted, but it also served to give Prowl’s cold facts a little warmth. For a tactician, sometimes the mech lacked interpersonal tact.

Chromia exchanged tolerant looks with her commander. “I’m sure you are.”

The Earth second-in-command gave Ironhide a sidelong look, recognizing what he’d done if not condoning it. Red Alert took over before Prowl continued, however, putting in his own concerns. “Taking ten known mechs out of the duty schedule is chaos enough, but not having enough bodies to refill the slots will disrupt everything. Is there a reason for the anonymity on the personnel list you transmitted?”

“Not in particular.” Elita One immediately shook her head, and Red Alert relaxed a bit. “Standard security on our end due to the chancy nature of the transportation the unit was using. A dossier will be added shortly once the third-party transport has arrived on Moon Base 2 to meet the shuttle to Earth.” Red Alert’s interest peaked, and even Prowl’s doors twitched. Jazz seemed to be rapidly shuffling through the lists of known units, trying to guess already. “Your concern is well founded.” She smiled warmly at Optimus, and even through the mask, everyone could tell he returned her affection. “No offense taken.”

He inclined his head, a playful sort of graciousness in the gesture. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

“So who’re you sending?” Jazz broke in. If he didn’t, Elita One and Prime would spend at least three more minutes gazing in gooey-eyed yearning at each other, and curiosity was _killing_ him. He gave them all a broad grin, spreading his arms as if to display the Jazzmeister to the world. “Ten to five! Who you got to balance all this Jazzy goodness?”

“Hot Rod,” Chromia said flatly before anyone else said anything, and if her lips were twitching with amusement, Jazz didn’t notice for that critical two seconds when his jaw nearly hit the table.

“Hot Ro—aw, c’ **mon** ,” he whined, catching on as Ironhide and Ratchet snickered. Even Red Alert smirked as Chromia lost her attempt at a straight face. “That just ain’t fair. Seriously, who’s coming Earth-side?”

Elita One shook her head at her officer’s antics. “In all seriousness, Hot Rod will be one of the unit members assigned to Earth. He’s young and brash, but strong and an able fighter. More importantly, you have sent us Spike Wit—wicky?” she sounded out, and Optimus nodded slightly when she pronounced it correctly. “As well as Bumblebee, your best human-Cybertronian liaison. Hot Rod has expressed much interest in Terran culture and humankind, and we would all benefit from another liaison. He’s at a point in his development where exposure to an allied alien race may stabilize his concept of self outside of battle and direct his thoughts for his future, after the war.”

There was a thoughtful pause on Earth as Elita One’s reasoning sank into the table of officers. Fighting ability was fairly assured at this point in a planet-spanning civil war, so pulling out the long-term plan card had trumped any of them possibly bringing up Hot Rod’s youth. “The commander gong fu is strong with this one,” Jazz murmured.

“It certainly wouldn’t be amiss to introduce him to a wide circle of younger humans,” Prowl conceded, tapping a note in for himself.

“His disciplinary file is quite lengthy,” Red Alert said, more as a request for information than an accusation.

“And I won’t be here to knock some sense into him if he misbehaves,” Ironhide growled, crossing his arms and sending the screen a mock-glare. “Are you sending us your delinquents?”

Chromia mock-glared right back. “You’re sending us **Jazz** ”.

Without even looking up from his datapad, Prowl touched one finger to his lips and then used it to draw a line in the air. _Score one for the Cybertron team._ Across the table from him, Jazz grinned unrepentantly. The main reason Bumblebee had been assigned to this mission was his infiltration skill; Jazz, while head of Special Ops and a saboteur extraordinaire, had specifically been picked for the mission for moral support. In other words, he was being sent to cheer up two whole Moonbases and what remained of the Autobot forces on Cybertron. Mere rules would not stand in his way.

Hot Rod’s rebellious streak and potential in exchange for Jazz’s various mischiefs and the Bumblebee-Spike dynamic duo. It could work out. “Bringing in such an inexperienced soldier at a time when I’m losing my four most senior officers may not work out as planned,” Optimus pointed out gently, spreading his hands out as if asking for understanding. “Red Alert is overworked as it is, and as much as I wish it, I cannot spare the time from my duties to act as a caretaker.”

Elita One spread her hands in turn, accepting the problem and offering a solution in one. “We’re aware of the problems inherent in transferring so many senior officers, which is why Ultra Magnus has agreed to accept transference to the Earth team.” A murmur of surprise went around the table, and Optimus sat up ramrod straight as his optics lit a bright blue in pleasure. As the commander of the Autobot underground resistance, Elita One couldn’t leave Cybertron; it had not occurred to him that shifting the bulk of the Autobot command structure from Earth to Cybertron would allow her to send one of her officers to Earth in turn! “To be honest,” Elita One’s smile broadened, shedding some of her habitual weariness, “we’re acting on Ratchet’s advice on this one.”

“Finally, someone listens to me,” the CMO snarked when all optics went to him. “All I had to do was file grievance reports every week until someone finally got fed up with hitting the _Delete_ key.”

That startled a laugh out of half the conference, Elita One included. “Ratchet, you griping bundle of faulty wiring, when have I not listened to you?”

“It is medically inadvisable to remain separated from the mech you lo—“

“On relevant issues!” the pink Cybertron commander interrupted hurriedly, which didn’t stop Chromia from elbowing her or Optimus from looking mortified when Ironhide and Jazz gave him teasing grins. Ratchet just looked smug in the way only a medic with enough seniority to suckerpunch anyone at the table could. Elita One shook her head like someone had poured cold water over her helm and went on. “I took your reports under advisement, but until now it’s been unfeasible to act on your concerns. Metroplex is needed as the core of Autobot City, and I have needed Ultra Magnus’ cool head in keeping the Moonbases organized. While stress is, of course, regrettable, it doesn’t have the same urgency as keeping the Decepticons at bay.“

“Stressing a cityformer,” Ratchet _tsk_ ed a finger at the screen chidingly, “is never a good idea. Metroplex has fragile interpersonal bonds. Assigning him a city commander made him dependant, and depriving him of that commander has put him under considerable psychological strain.”

On the screen, Elita One inclined her head. “Again, it’s regrettable, but unavoidable.”

“Try explaining that to a cityformer going through a minor breakdown at 3 AM,” Ratchet muttered a little resentfully, but he waved a dismissal when Elita One seemed concerned by his continued griping. “I never like having patients I can’t treat. Send Ultra Magnus and be done with it.” He caught Optimus looking surprised and somewhat distressed by that piece of news, and shook his head at the Prime. “Don’t give me that look. Metroplex doesn’t usually talk to **anyone** about his problems, so how could you have possibly known? He apparently spent a month here on Earth under the impression that he’d failed to defend the last stronghold on Cybertron, and that’s why the Autobots retreated to the Moonbases. He thought his separation from Ultra Magnus was part of a passive punishment detail. He finally asked me how long he’d be, ah, ‘banished’ here to Earth.” Even Prowl looked disturbed at that, and Red Alert seemed to be sharing Optimus’ dismay. The security officer worked so closely with Metroplex that finding out the cityformer regarded Autobot City as exile was rather disturbing. Ratchet sighed and rested an elbow on the table, propping his chin on the hand. “That was quite a while ago, and First Aid’s been working with him in therapy since. But the commander slot is a hard-wired dependency. I can’t change that, and as miserable as separation makes him, I can’t imagine Ultra Magnus is much better.”

Commander and officer exchanged looks across the battered desk serving as their conference table on Cybertron. “That…would explain some of his behavior, yes,” Elita One said slowly.

Chromia seemed to be matching up thoughts, optics flicking rapidly from side to side. “He’s so stoic it’s hard to tell when he’s unhappy with his personal life, but yeah. Just getting him to Earth where he can actually go offduty for a shift would help, I think. Prime?”

Optimus gave her a dutiful salute with two fingers. “I’ll make him go for a drive down the coast with Hound and Beachcomber.”

Prowl’s doors hiked high and tight with embarrassment, but he stubbornly refused to look up from his datapad when Jazz, Ironhide, _and_ Ratchet turned to give him knowing looks. Red Alert just looked long-suffering. If Ultra Magnus could manage to keep his mind on work while in the company of two Autobots who could rhapsodize about a solitary butterfly, much less an entire coastal eco-system, then he was a stronger mech than Prowl. Lesson learned: when the Prime said to take a break, _take a break._ Or else two Autobot soldiers with orders to make their superior officer relax would show up at his door and inflict nature on him until he somehow ended up with a saltwater aquarium the size of his altmode and an urgent need to make sure all the local carwashes frequented by the Autobots were using biodegradable soap.

He made a note to have someone care for his fish while he was gone, since he was thinking about it. Someone responsible. The hermit crabs had ended up with artificial—although harmless—shells resembling certain Decepticons last time there had been a conference on intergalactic treaties in Japan. While it had been a little amusing to see a Hermitron and Starscreamit in his tank upon his return, that kind of prank could have harmed the aquarium if it hadn’t been so carefully executed. He couldn’t have Hound or Beachcomber do the job. Beachcomber because he had moral objections to cages of any kind, and Prowl already felt guilty about having an aquarium. Hound would let the Pudget Sound Rescue Center rehabilitate injured harbor seals in his quarters again, or expand the tank; either way, someone would start complaining about the fishy smell in the halls.

Elita One and Chromia were watching the byplay on the Earth side of the conference with interest, but Optimus Prime seemed serenely unaware of Prowl’s discomfort. Or perhaps he was all too aware of it, being that he was the one who was ultimately responsible for Prowl’s interest in cold-water aquariums. With any luck, siccing Hound and Beachcomber on Ultra Magnus would inspire a similar interest in the city commander, and then he could care for the fish while Prowl was on Cybertron. Optimus would just have to make certain to promptly squash any attempts to make an Autobot City Aquarium.

“Awesome! One city commander in return for,” Jazz counted on his fingers, ticking off each officer, “Prowl, Ratchet, Ironhide, and who am I forgetting..?” The conference in general gazed at him in fond exasperation as the last officer scratched his head in thin pretence of absentmindedness. “Oh, yeah! Me!”

“How could we forget?” Chromia deadpanned.

“No idea,” Jazz said back cheerfully, letting her sarcasm pass over him completely. “That’s—how many?” he asked Ratchet. The CMO regarded him with scant favor. Enlightenment seemed to hit Jazz from on high as he looked down at his fingers, which were still extended from counting. He brandished them at the screen for Elita One and Chromia to see as well. “Four! For one officer and a rookie. A little light on the experience side, here, don’t you think?”

“Uhm-hmm,” Elita One said, watching Jazz’s antics with the expression of one watching her doom approach. Or at least a pain in the aft. Optimus had directed his optics up and off to one side, which did less than he thought to conceal the amused twinkle in them. The two commanders shared a resigned, if tolerant, look when the Prime felt her optics on him. This was the mech being transferred to Cybertron, with full permission to antic-away. _I know I brought this upon myself, but it still hurts._

Chromia allowed them their moment of shared commanderly sympathy before smacking her hand down on the table with overdone revelation. “Good point, Jazz!”

“…it is?”

“I had no idea that we’d be taking away so much of the Autobots wisdom for ourselves.” She turned to Elita One, who fought down a smile in order to nod gravely when Chromia earnestly confessed, “I feel so guilty, now. They’ll blunder around Earth like blind turbofox pups without Ratchet’s guidance.”

“I’m glad somebody appreciates what I do around here.”

“I must just be here for decorative value,” Optimus jibed.

“What am I, old armor plating?” Red Alert asked Jazz. The saboteur blinked back at him, startled momentarily speechless that Chromia had so easily turned his words against him. Maybe running rampant through the Moonbases like a morale-boosting virus wouldn’t be as difficult as he’d thought!

Chromia was still listing the many problems the Autobots would have without ye old wise Autobot officers to keep them out of trouble. “—blow up the armory, because we all know nobody can load a weapon without Ironhide standing guard over the shooting range. Why, I’ll bet Bluestreak will shoot himself in the foot without Ironhide there to hold his hand!” Ironhide snorted a laugh at Chromia’s overacting, and Prowl shook his head at the idea of the sniper shooting himself. That would be like Sunstreaker pummeling himself; theoretically possible, but physically unlikely. Chromia threw up her arms as if asking for Primus’ aid. “Those that don’t blow themselves up will trip over each other since Prowl won’t be there to oversee them,” Optimus made a small noise of objection, or perhaps that was a muffled laugh, “or perhaps die of rust infections because, goodness gracious me, the pillar of Earth, that titan of the medbay--Ratchet won’t be there.” She shrugged at Elita One at the hopelessness of the Earth Autobots. “I’m so glad that we’re sending Kup, aren’t you?”

“I am. I think he’ll manage to keep Autobot City intact.” This time, the two Cybertron-side officers had managed to flummox the entire table of Earth-side officers. Jazz had frozen in the middle of elbowing Ratchet (the medic was enjoying Chromia’s apparent belief that he alone held the Autobots together at the seams), and Ratchet had stopped mid-defense to look up at the screen. Ironhide nearly choked on his laugh. Prowl and Red Alert stopped their low-voiced conversation (Red Alert had agreed to care for the aquarium), and Prime slowly sat back in his chair as they all digested this sudden announcement. “I know we will miss him here,” Elita One said, and her tone was serious. Kup was probably one of the oldest, and definitely one of the most experienced Autobots left.

Despite the friendship they all felt, and even the genuine longing between Elita One and Optimus Prime that kept the others deliberately loose on the agenda in order to prolong the meeting, the topic was serious. Under all the banter, the Autobot officers had come to the conference to discuss troop movements that might influence the end of the war. Transferring Kup from Cybertron to Earth was akin to sending a battalion. It wasn’t that Kup had more physical impact than any experienced fighter. It was just that Kup had…influence.

“We thought the Earth ranks might need a reminder of what we’re fighting for,” Elita One said softly, and Prime nodded slowly in return.

Red Alert reset his vocalize, ending their individual thoughts on that. “While Kup is a significant addition to the transfer, that doesn’t give me bodies to fill a shift schedule with. You’re still giving us half the number we’re sending.”

Chromia gave him what could only be called a cheeky grin. “Spike isn’t on a duty roster. Also, Jazz won’t be technically assigned to any shifts here, so you’re really only giving us eight bodies for our own shift schedules.”

Red Alert narrowed his optics. “That’s still eight to five.”

“We’re sending Springer.”

“A triple-changer is not equivalent to three mechs!”

“He’s a Wrecker; his normal shift is a double, already. What’s your hardest shifts to fill?” Elita One asked shrewdly.

“Long-range aerial patrols,” Red Alert conceded. “You factored that into your choice, I take it.”

The two Cybertron-side officers nodded in unison, and Jazz whistled softly. “I told you: commander gong fu.”

“You will have a fighting force of ten with Spike’s exosuit,” Prowl argued. “You are sending four very fine soldiers, but unless the fifth is a gestalt, I fail to see how this could balance out our—“

“Arcee.”

Prowl snapped his mouth closed. Silence briefly ruled the table. He adjusted the datapad on the table in front of him, squaring it on the table, and turned to Optimus Prime with all optics on him. “My argument is invalid.”


End file.
